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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549708">The Management</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Steiner/pseuds/John_Steiner'>John_Steiner</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The X-Files</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:54:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549708</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Steiner/pseuds/John_Steiner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fredrick Granger, a local TV reporter whose career is on the downward slide, is assigned to do a fluff piece on a remote town that appears ideal for in-state tourism. However, he uncovers a number of oddities about the town, and the first among those is the absence of children or young adults. Still focused on doing the story, Fredrick reaches out to the town council and mayor only to find out no such civil positions exist. Instead, he hears common reference to "The Management" and seeks to uncover what that means. Fredrick is often told about how great living under the mountains is, and he decides to venture up the trails for the sights and finish the news story. It's there he learns the true nature of The Management.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Management</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's what we in the media call a working holiday. Yeah, I'm going to a wonderful getaway, but it's because my producer at a local television news show wants a story filmed there. A sort of "What You Don't Know is in Your State" fluff piece.</p><p>I used to report on crime and court cases, until I got burned by our channel's chief editor. He assigned me the story on a scandal involving the mayor's wife, and the corruption case against her. The verdict was guilty and deliberations didn't take long, but because the mayor is good friends and political allies with the governor the pardon was quick and unapologetic.</p><p>After that, the channel was hit with a slander suit, the chair we held at gubernatorial press conferences for over fifty years was lost, and the flood of hate emails from people we knew were in fact political interns synthesized more email backlash from voters.</p><p>The message to my network couldn't have been clearer, so my career was sidelined into inconsequential news. It could've been worse. The cameraman I had worked with in the court case story got the money shot of seeing the mayor's wife on the brink of emotional collapse when the sentence was declared by the jury. He was canned and never worked in journalism again.</p><p>So, here I come to this sleepy little town. The community sits at the foot of startlingly close mountains, which themselves stab up through the ground like a knife punching all the way through a murder victim's throat. That they're covered in ice and snow when the land below is wearing beautiful spring green casts the air of scornful indifference from the mountains. With the cloud cover, one would think even the clouds were intimidated by the mountains, and goaded into taking it out on everything else below them.</p><p>The outskirts of the town are these wooden houses, built as if with the aid of a time portal to 1870, or at least 1970. Wide open pastures, but no farm animals. Not far from that is a dense treeline, but as I drive by them with my window down I hear no birds.</p><p>A middle aged couple on one porch studies my car crossing before their yard. Their smiles are warm, but their eyes never seem to blink, and I feel like those fighter jocks in the movies who announce that an enemy plane has a radar lock onto them.</p><p>On approaching the heart of the town building density rises. The terrain becomes more uneven, and structures in neighboring lots could still be one or more stories above or below the neighboring businesses or homes. Diners, sporting good stores, and other tourist trap establishments blend into more ordinary corner marts, gas stations, and one movie theater.</p><p>However, what catches my eye is that despite the time of day the schools are quiet, and their parking lots entirely bare. Passing a sheriff's office, I notice only one car and a single light on inside near the front door.</p><p>"It's like Andy Griffith meats Norman Bates," I snark while passing by.</p><p>At last, I sight the office of tourism merged into the small one-floor city council building. I pull into the lot, again populated by only one other vehicle, and park closest to the front entrance. I get out and go up to the door, securing my car with a sharp double beep that echoes off the mountain itself.</p><p>It makes me imagine the entire town shouting about the racket.</p><p>A shadow of a woman comes to the door from the inside, but she opens it and suddenly her rounded features are well-lit and cheery. "You must be Fredrick Granger!"</p><p>"Yes," I reply, "Miss Doris Rae Lancet?"</p><p>"I am," she beams and offers her hand, "How do you do?"</p><p>"Good, thank you," I reply, and accept the handshake, noting how cold her hand is. "Did my producer tell you about the story we're doing?"</p><p>"She did," Miss Lancet answers, "We don't often get you media types here. Our local paper hasn't run an edition in-- Oh, I think before I was born."</p><p>"Come to think of it," I start to recall, "I haven't seen newspaper stands or shelves in any of the establishments I passed. Didn't see the paper's own building either, now that you mention it."</p><p>"So, tell me about you," she prompts while leading me to her office, which also wasn't lit until she leads me into it.</p><p>"KWNG serves three cities in the state and the communities around them," I recite our coverage area, hoping to fake the pride we're required to sound off with. "Though, I believe this town is outside our broadcast zone."</p><p>"TV doesn't carry around here," Miss Lancet reveals.</p><p>"You're not far from another network's TV tower, and the line-of-sight is pretty solid, so that's unusual," I describe.</p><p>"The mountains, you see," Lancet states, having missed my point about the lack of obstruction with the signal repeater.</p><p>I let is slide, figuring it not worth explaining to small town folk. "Well, I'm hoping to build attention for this town and maybe boost business for you. However, in doing some checking I couldn't find anything about your town council or mayor's office."</p><p>"Oh," she waves off at me, "That's all handled. Everything like that is taken care of. That's the nice thing about these mountains."</p><p>The declaration of hers is confusing, but maybe she means some libertarian thing, which I guess makes sense for really small towns. "Speaking of which, I don't suppose you have tour guides who could lead me up the mountain, so I could get some phone video?"</p><p>The smile drops from her face, as if Miss Lancet were at that moment hit with a flash freeze. Her hands look as if she were about to lay them on the desk, but they too are held in position inches above it and seemingly unable to budge.</p><p>"Miss Lancet?" I lean forward to give a verbal prod.</p><p>The spell breaks, but she doesn't answer my prior question. "You're free to wander around town and take in the sights. I'm sure folks won't mind taking questions."</p><p>"Ahh- okay, I'll do that," I say, and then rise and shake her hand again.</p><p>Back out of the building and again in my car I chuckle to myself. The next order of business is getting a motel room, which isn't hard here. Three lodges and yet not one has a booked room. Foresightful glances at parking tell me that story.</p><p>Next, I unpack my spare change of clothes and toiletries. I notice the room has a TV that is clear of dust, and a remote sitting on top. It's an old TV in that it's not flat, but trying the remote I notice that the box is plugged in and the remote's batteries are still good.</p><p>Yet, there is snow on every channel. Even the high number local channels are absent. The shopping channel on 57, which would normally come in bad, but hits every other TV in the state doesn't even come up.</p><p>"Okay, Doris," I say out loud, "You win that round."</p><p>Nothing to do in the motel, I go back out and cruise the town. Sporadic cars appear, and some people are out walking, though I notice everyone appears elderly or middle-aged. There are no children or young adults.</p><p>"Hmm," could be an interesting angle to include," I suggest to myself.</p><p>I see an outdoor dining area at one restaurant, and decide that's as good a place to start the story as anywhere. I pull into the lot and step out toward the collection of people casually chatting.</p><p>"Hello," I say, "I'm Fred Granger of KWNG. Would it be alright if I conduct a group interview with you? I'm reporting on your lovely town, and I would like some local insights."</p><p>"Sure, young man," one very aged gentleman enthusiastically answers, and waves to a seat.</p><p>"Thank you," I reply and get out my photo to record. "First, can I ask what you do for a living, sir?"</p><p>"I run the grocer and butcher shop in town," he says.</p><p>At this time of day I wouldn't have expected him to be away from his business and broach the subject. "Is business slower than usual?"</p><p>"Nope," he declares with satisfaction, "Just leave the place unlocked and people buy as they need. Someone writes up meat orders and I get around to checking once a day."</p><p>"Must be a very open and trusting community you have here," I observe.</p><p>"Yeap," he again announces for all present, "We're a close-knit town. Everybody knows everybody."</p><p>"I guess that's why your sheriff's office just has one person," I say.</p><p>"An' he ain't got much to do," the grocer adds, "Nope. All that's taken care of. That's how we are here. Keep a loose hand on the tiller."</p><p>"How is it taken care of?" I push ever so carefully, "If you don't mind my asking."</p><p>"Same as all else here," he answers vaguely, but with an assured nod. "Nice thing about being under these mountains."</p><p>The second time I've heard 'taken care of' and 'these mountains' in the same statement. "That's interesting, so by that you mean a mountain community being uneventful."</p><p>"We ain't need to worry for a long time now," he says and nods again. "Many years things been taken care of."</p><p>"Hey, I was wondering if you knew of someone who is familiar with the trails on the range?" I figure the question would test the social climate.</p><p>"Ain't no trails," he said as his feature turn blanks. "Nope. No one can help you with that."</p><p>"It could help with tourism," I suggest.</p><p>"I thought you was doin' a story about the town," he reminds.</p><p>"About your mountain community, yes," I clarify, "Possibly spur some real estate growth for you."</p><p>"The real estate is just fine, thank you," a sixty-something woman informs me from the next table.</p><p>"Doesn't your town need revenue?" I ask.</p><p>"Things are handle for us here," she repeats what feels like the town's motto.</p><p>Throughout the group interview nothing much comes to light, other than each of them don't appear to really work their jobs, yet they insist that they're not retired or jobless. I conclude the chat and head back to my car. By now the sun has disappeared, even though it's hardly four in the afternoon.</p><p>Getting back to my room, I pull out my laptop and start it up to write. I replay the video of the diner as I work, and study the features of the townsfolk. Their homely mannerisms are stereotypical until the mountains or town management come up, whereon it's like they cease to be people and just become automatons.</p><p>Yet, fluff news isn't built on investigating reporting, so I leave that out of my early draft. I try calling my station to talk to my producer, but the phone doesn't connect. I have a full five bars, so I don't understand it. Testing my phone's internet gives me the same 'Unable to Connect' issue.</p><p>"Okay then," I mutter to myself, "Guess I'll do the mountain thing without help, but not tonight."</p><p>I turn in early after setting my phone alarm. Direct daylight is short-lived in places like this, so I have to plan my excursion accordingly.</p><p>The next morning I drive to one of the sporting good stores, only to discover that while the door is unlocked no one is working inside. Reminded of what the old grocer told me, I shop around anyway and pick up a few camping items. At the front tiller I see an old note taped to the tabletop informing me that there is no sales tax.</p><p>I would've thought that meant none that is local, and so write out a check that accounts for national sales tax and leave the check in a small basket with a dollar sign painted at the bottom. I figure whoever runs this place must have picked up the money from other purchases, however it also occurs to me that maybe I'm the first customer in a long time.</p><p>Shaking off that tremor-inducing thought, I go back out to my car. Opening the driver side door, I notice someone standing in their front yard, almost wholly swallowed by evergreen trees. The resident studies me with a hard eye.</p><p>"I left a payment for all this stuff," I call out and thumb to the store.</p><p>They don't reply, just keep watching. Unnerved by it, I climb into my car and pull out onto the quiet road. Following that, I go as far east toward the mountain range as I can. The road rises in elevation, but stops dead in its tracks with the last house. The home looks unoccupied, in that with missing windows and all shadow inside, I know no one has lived there.</p><p>Knowing the limits of my economy car that I bought used, I decide to swing the backpack onto my shoulders and trek up on foot. Despite what I was told, there is a well worn trail heading up at a leisurely grade. The further along I go the closer to the trail trees hug around it. And yet, not a single animal in sight.</p><p>My hike goes on for a couple hours until something interesting turns up. I find hoof prints. What all the hunting garb I had spotted in the store it'd make sense that there were deer up here. Though, I see no trace of it other than the tracks. Turning to survey the area makes me feel a little claustrophobic.</p><p>'It's taken care of,' enters my mind. It's not my thought, which makes it strange to me, yet the words mentally form regardless, and the claustrophobia quickly fades.</p><p>Continuing on for another hour or so, I again make a discovery. It's a dead squirrel on the side of the trail. It's desiccated enough to suggest that the body was there for months at a minimum, but there are fuzzy strands like a web weaving through where the skin has rotted away. This isn't like a spider's web, more like mold or something.</p><p>Without warning, I hear a squawk and frantic fluttering of wings. Jumping practically out of my newly purchased hiking boots, I whirl around to find a crow caught up in a tree and panicking. A streaming rain of pine needles drifts down from the branch the bird is trying to escape from.</p><p>In a crack, the branch breaks dragging the crow down with it. Still fluttering for freedom, the bird flops on the ground. Approaching, I see that those same fuzzy white fibers connect from the branch to the bird's foot.</p><p>"Hey, it's okay," I catch myself soothsaying, as I reach for the branch.</p><p>However the crow's frantic motions, it stops but with an eye cast my way that clearly broadcasts terror. Not touching the moldy looking webbing, I grab the branch and try to wipe the mold off it. It holds fast to the branch, so I reach for another stick to try breaking it from the freshly snapped limb.</p><p>Thinking to try a rock next, I notice the bird again starts moving, but in slow death throes. It rolls over to its back with beak left agape. Poking it with the second stick gets no response. It must be dead.</p><p>Backing away quickly, I decide to keep going and not look back. "Okay, so no saving the wildlife. Got it. Check."</p><p>By noon I come across the largest mountain find yet. The trail just stops before a ravine, and in that ravine is a stupendous amount of that moldy whatever. Though, I notice something else. Through the haze of fungal fibers I think I see shafts and rounded objects. What they are becomes clear to me when I also make out the features of a rib cage.</p><p>Only, to my horror none of the skeletons appear to be adult size. "Oh my god, they're children! All of them."</p><p>The first wind I ever hear in this mountain town blows over the ravine with the vague sound of words, "It has been handled."</p><p>Scanning the slopes, I desperately hope someone's pranking me. Yet, all I see are chilly rocky slopes and drifts of ever-solid ice. "It's the mountain. That's what is in charge."</p><p>I don't know why that occurs to me, but saying it out loud carries the ring of truth to it. Turning to go back down, I see that the trail now is a carpet of short moldy fibers.</p>
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